Two Jakes (56 page)

Sure
enough, the package was soon sold at $100,000. That prompted another comment
from the man at the next table.

“Phony
bastards. Phil can buy and sell all of them.”

At
the end of the auction, Arachne announced that the night’s pledges had indeed
topped the previous year’s record of $7.1 million “and we haven’t yet tallied
the proceeds from the silent auction.” That brought a huge round of applause,
after which he raised his hands for silence. “Now that you’ve been bled dry,
why don’t you enjoy yourselves? You’ve earned it.” With that, he signaled the
band, which had quietly set up in a corner, and attendants moved the podium
from the dance floor.

Arachne
walked over to their table.

“Great
job, Ari,” Emma said, and Scarne concurred.

“Thank
you. Now I think I deserve a reward, don’t you.” He held out a hand. “May I
have this dance? You don’t mind, do you, Jake. You’ve had her all night.”

“Of
course not.”

But
Scarne did feel a twinge of …something…as he watched them. Arachne was such a
fine dancer that, even though he was shorter than Emma in her heels, he looked
powerful and dominant. For the first time, Scarne studied him closely. Can’t be
much taller than five-six, five-seven. Broad shoulders and a massive head,
really too large for that body. Steel-gray hair, cut long and swept back. Bushy
eyebrows, prominent nose and chin gave his face the look of the prow of a ship.
Reminded Scarne of pictures of another ‘Ari.’ The phrase “ugly handsome” popped
into his head. The kind of man who got any woman he wanted. Like Jackie O. Or
Emma Shields?

“Better
wash that one?”

The
drunken woman next to him was tugging his sleeve. He turned to her.

“I’m
sorry, what did you say?”

“I
shed, you better wash that one. He’sh after your woman.”

He
was about to reply when to his horror the woman jumped up and pulled him out of
his chair.

“Lesh
you and I give her sumpin’ to worry about. I wanna dansh. Last time Henry ashed
me, cars didn’t have hubcapsh, they had spokesh.”

Dancing
with the woman was like pushing a supermarket cart that had a bent wheel. It
was all Scarne could do to prevent them from careening into the Temple of
Dendur. After what seemed like an hour, he finally steered her back to the
table, where she discovered a just-opened bottle of wine. Arachne and Emma
joined them.

“Then
I’ll see you later,” Arachne said, kissing her hand. He looked at Jake. “Both
of you.” He strode off purposefully. The band started up and Scarne, sensing an
imminent attack from his recent partner, quickly pulled Emma on to the dance
floor.

“Jake,
this is so nice. When do I grab your ass?”

“Pardon
me.”

“Mrs.
Heartland over there had her hand on your ass the whole time you were dancing.”
Emma gave him a little squeeze.

“Cut
it out. My whole life was flashing before my eyes. I wouldn’t think you had
time to notice. You and Arachne cut quite a figure.”

“He’s
a fascinating man. Great dancer, too. We actually spent quite a bit of time
talking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.
He thinks you are quite the interesting fellow. Wanted to know all about you. I
had some difficulty steering the conversation back to how wonderful I look.”

“That
couldn’t have been hard. You do look marvelous. But isn’t he married?”

“There
is trouble in paradise.”

“Isn’t
he on his third?”

“Who’s
counting?”

***

Emma
and Scarne got to Arachne’s apartment building on East 65
^th
Street
around midnight. Upon entering, Scarne commented on the spectacular oval lobby
and its 20-foot blue oculus.

“It’s
meant to give the effect of an open sky,” Emma said. “This building was
designed by Robert Stern, the Dean of Architecture at Yale.”

“I
knew that.”

“Sorry,
I’m showing off. We own
New York Design Magazine
and they just did a
piece on him.”

Arachne
had apparently invited more than a select few back to his apartment. There was
a backup at the elevators. Emma put her hand on Scarne’s arm.

“Let’s
go this way,” she said, and led him down a hallway where they exited onto a side
street. Once outside they walked a few feet and into the building’s garage
area. At the bottom of a small ramp was a private elevator. Emma punched some
numbers into a small keypad next to the door. Nothing happened. She tried
again. Nothing.

“Damn.
I never get it right. It’s the day, month and year.”

“It
changes every day?”

“Yes,
Ari is paranoid.” She looked at Scarne. “He’d probably have a canary if he knew
I told you that, sweetie.”

“I’m
honored,” Scarne said, with a twinge of annoyance. He had noted the “never get
it right” comment. Emma had obviously used the private elevator before. How
many times? He suppressed his jealousy. “It’s after midnight, the date probably
changed.”

“Of
course!” She punched in the numbers and the doors opened. “Voila!”

The
high-speed lift took them to the penthouse on the 34
^th
floor
overlooking Central Park. A servant took their coats in the white-marble
entrance hallway and they walked into a living room made stunning by
upholstered walls and black lacquer cabinetry. Dozens of guests were lined up
at a wet bar that seemed to be made of onyx. Scarne looked up at a coffered
gold-covered ceiling.

“Is
that…?”

“Yes,
24-carat,” Emma said. “Ari never passes up a chance to trump Trump.”

More
guests were hovering around a large buffet in the adjacent dining room, which
like the living room, featured a wide-planked antique Versailles floor. The
room had Venetian-style fabric walls and a hand-painted ceiling and its large
windows offered both park and river views. There were perhaps 40 people in the
apartment. Scarne and Emma found Arachne among a group of people on a terrace
off the living room admiring the spectacular view of Central Park and the
lights of midtown. Many of the men were smoking cigars. Arachne spotted them
and walked over.

“Glad
you could make it. Let’s repair to the library.” He laughed. “I’ve always
wanted to say that.”

He
led them down a long hallway lined with black-and-white Ansel Adams photos. He
waved them into the library and closed the sliders.

“I
like to come here to think – and drink,” he said, walking over to a sidebar. He
picked up a carafe.

“How
about some port? It’s a 1967 Noval Nacional. Portuguese ambassador sent me a
couple of bottles after I built a golf course over there.”

Another
Trump-like endeavor, Scarne thought. The Donald creates a reality show, Arachne
follows. Golf courses, gold ceilings. Was the man envious, or just insecure?
While Arachne fixed their drinks, Scarne continued to look around. The library
was dominated by two huge bronze chandeliers. On one wall a maple bookcase rose
to the ceiling. The room’s artwork was eclectic, with paintings by Wyeth,
Pollack, Prince and Rockwell, as well as a Tang Dynasty horse sculpture.

Emma
and Scarne sat facing a fireplace flanked by diamond-paneled leaded windows.
Above the fireplace was a painting by James Nares, whose flowing red ribbon
seemed to be an extension of the flames in the hearth.

“This
is a magnificent apartment,” Scarne said.

“Yes,
it is. In some ways I’m going to miss it.”

“I
didn’t know you were moving, Ari,” Emma said.

Arachne
looked up from pouring the drinks.

“I’m
closing next week on the penthouse at 8 Spruce. Should be moving in by the end
of next month.”

Everyone
in Manhattan knew about the stunning new apartment building in lower Manhattan
near the Brooklyn Bridge. Designed by Frank Gehry, at 76 stories it was said to
be the tallest residential building in the Western Hemisphere and had won
nearly unanimous praise from the city’s notoriously cantankerous architectural
critics, who raved over its shimmering, wavelike metal exterior. Scarne, who
had passed it many times, was less impressed. Looking up at its curves and
angles gave him a headache.

“I
understand it’s taller than Trump Tower,” Scarne said innocently. “Will it also
have a private elevator?”

Emma
shot him a look but Arachne only smiled and gave them their drinks. He placed
his own on the mantel above the fireplace and leaned back against one of its
sides, crossing his legs.

“So,
what can I do for you, Jake? Emma was very mysterious.”

“I’m
looking into something on Staten Island, which may involve real estate
development and NASCAR. Emma thought you might know some people I can talk to,
discreetly.”

“The
proposed track?’

“Yes.
You’ve heard about it?”

“You
could say that. I’m thinking about putting some money into the deal, if they’ll
let me.”

“A
racetrack, Ari?” It was Emma. “Isn’t that a little off your reservation?”

“Yes,
I suppose it is. But you know I dabble in Formula One and have contacts among
the NASCAR drivers. And you remember that I own Howland Hook, which isn’t that
far from the NASCAR property. I may want to have some say in what’s going on in
that part of Staten Island.”

“Howland
Hook is a marine terminal for container ships,” Emma explained to Scarne.

“Yes,
I know. I spent, or misspent, much of my youth on Staten Island.”

“Oh,
of course, I forgot.”

“So,
you know the borough well, Jake,” Arachne said. “NASCAR is big business. Staten
Island would be lucky to get them, don’t you agree?”

“Some
people are worried about the traffic problem.”

Arachne
laughed.

“Jake,
this is New York. There are always traffic problems. Or environmental problems.
Or religious problems. We’re the NIMBY capital of the world – ‘Not In My Back
Yard.’ It’s amazing anything ever gets built.”

“You’ve
done all right.”

Arachne
nodded at the observation.

“But
I’ve had to step on some toes to do it.”

“The
people I’m after did more than step on toes. They brutally raped and murdered a
young girl.”

Arachne
looked incredulous.

“Good
God! I can’t imagine anyone in NASCAR countenancing that sort of thing. It’s
preposterous.”

“I
don’t think he means NASCAR is involved,” Emma said quickly, turning to Jake.
“Perhaps you should tell Ari what happened.”

Scarne
hesitated, and Arachne noticed.

“If
I’m going to help you, I want some idea of what this is about. I can keep my
mouth shut, if that’s what’s worrying you.” He waved airily at his
surroundings. “I didn’t get all this by talking out of school. Quite the
opposite.”

“You
can trust Ari,” Emma said.

Scarne
gave an abridged version of the events leading up to his investigation and his
lack of progress since. His host listened intently and without interruption,
occasionally taking a sip of port. When Scarne finished, Arachne quietly filled
all their glasses.

“That
may be the most disturbing story I’ve ever heard.”

“Emma
is correct,” Scarne said. “I can’t imagine NASCAR is involved, except perhaps
unwittingly. But it’s not exactly something I want to run by their public
relations people.”

“I
would think not,” Arachne observed.

“Have
you ever come across a man named Nathan Bimm?”

“Nathan
Bimm? Who is he?”

“Just
a name that’s come up in the NASCAR deal. Big in real estate on the Island.
Very cozy with the Borough President, Blovardi.”

“Don’t
know Bimm. But I’ve met Blovardi, of course. Rotund little man. Can’t say I
trust any of the politicians out there. But I can’t let that get in the way of
a potentially good investment. Still, if there’s anything to what you say, I
don’t want to be blindsided. After the job Shields did on me, I don’t need any
more aggravation.”

“Ari,
our stories were fair and scrupulously researched,” Emma said.

“Of
course they were, dear. I’m just teasing. Actually, you gave Howland Hook high
marks. I guess if a Greek can run anything well, it’s a shipping line
operation.” Arachne turned back to Scarne. “In any event, Jake, perhaps we can
help each other out. I can call the NASCAR people and tell them that you are
working for the Arachne Group, doing some due diligence for me. Maybe their security
people know something. But you will have to be discreet about what you’re
really after. If you mention murder, that may have some legal ramifications for
me. Can you do that?”

“I
don’t see why not. But if I come across anything damning, I’m going to have to
do something about it.”

“Of
course, I understand. I would want you to. I just hope you might give me a
heads up. If I pull out of a prospective deal, I might have to smooth some
ruffled feathers at NASCAR.”